Potterland
by Oregon Bird
Summary: In post-apocolyptic London, former wizard Severus Snape rescues a ward of the Crown from abuse and degradation. But no good deed goes unpunished; Snape must now return the green-eyed little girl to a world he can no longer access. Please nitpick!


It all began without Snape. He was a vicious man with a disturbing past, but when the future arrived in a sudden, concussive firestorm, he lay quietly in the cool earth and did not die, for a very long time. He was now an expatriate, without voice or interest in the world, or in the remnants of life that surged around his flat. That is a jarring idea all in itself: Snape, in a flat. Not an abode, not a chamber; just a nothing place that didn't deserve the dignity of warmer words. A flat. White paint, wall-to-wall carpeting, mid-century furniture with rubbed spots on the wooden arms. Even the romance of a city studio was denied; a small bedroom looked out on the next building, and had he ever opened the blinds, Snape could have sat on the armless chair that held his coat and watched the open window of the single, aging man who slept in the bedroom opposite his own.

That didn't happen. Snape left early, before the sun rose, and returned late, with tasteless food he ate standing at the sink. There was a table, pushed against the wall just a few feet inside the door, but it had disappeared long ago under drifts of newsprint. The top papers were dated from the year before. The first layers, which crackled softly when the overhead tenants passed on the stairs, had coffee stains and faded, scribbled notes in the margins and in the empty spaces of the few, disregarded ads. Nearly six years of yellowing screeds, left to drift and landslide to the floor. The important bits were taped to the door. Suggestions. Examples. Directives. Approved terminology, approved routes, approved shops. A list of agencies: Protection From Children; Sensible Social Reporting; Maintenance For The Bereaved; Winter Syndrome Relief; Lucifer Management. Iodine Level Assistance.

Britain had remade itself, again, and there was a government agency, complete with blank and unattractive receptionists, for anything and everything. Snape was employed by two such agencies, one of which produced gritty, sticky ash, and the other, gently-used clothing. He officially had no idea, nor interest, in what services either provided, despite being exposed each day to a seemingly endless stream of advertisements that claimed to offer snippets of information. The same bright, discordant music accompanied each commercial for the new government's service agencies, and they were oddly difficult to watch. It was not uncommon to pass people vomiting in the vicinity of the public screens. Of course, the quality of beer had become uncertain in the past few years, and the nicotine patches available through the Anti-Smoking Coalition were rumored to react badly when used in conjunction with alcohol.

A wise man chose his vices carefully these days. As always.

Then again, a wiser man would never allow himself to be suspected of retaining any vice. Snape kept an exact number of pants and waistcoats, cleaned his shoes publicly in the back garden, was seen in the same places at the same times each day, and displayed no signs of excessive joy, angst or knowledge. A former public-school teacher was uniquely suited for advancement in the life that Reclaimed Britain offered. Despite his disabilites, Severus Snape could have done very well for himself, if he so chose.

He did not choose. Also, he refused to reject even the most remote, unlikely possibility that his magic would return. If Trelawney had survived the toppling of her tower, he would have strangled her with one of her paisley scarves as she peered at the utter order of his life and predicted that the sallow, sinewy potions master would leave his fate to chance. Yet despite that -- despite the intense and focused dissatisfaction that accompanied the shrieks of the wide-bladed shovel he scraped across concrete floors, despite the interior monologue that dogged every heavy load he shepherded through disinfection, laundry and out onto a delivery truck, in ever-present risk of contamination or infestation -- the first blow against the latest status quo to invade his life was not struck at his behest. That in itself was infuriating.

He had been unforgivably foolish. In the late, icy darkness of London's empty side streets, he had permitted himself to relax, deeming instinct alone enough to direct his steps toward a far-distant bed. At the time, it had seemed such a simple luxury, allowing rational thought to submerge into the exhaustion born of unrelieved hours at unceasing, monotonous labor.

The incident itself was nothing. It was an occurrence that any self-respecting citizen would sidestep without notice; Snape had done so himself, more times than he could begin to remember. In the past, under different circumstances, the ex-Death Eater had performed the identical action a hundred times, and taken as much pleasure in each result as he deemed necessary. So what, in that random moment, had removed Snape from the rut he had polished into a seamless mobius strip of detached movement?

The featureless alley door had opened as he approached, and the first figure to emerge had been disconcertingly small. The uniformed man that followed clarified the situation. It was just a child, being moved in darkness from one place to another with the dispatch and unsentimental efficiency of any good penal system. Damn the awkward luck that sent the boy face-first onto a smoking grate, and the pained gasp the brat caught and held, so nearly soundless that it caught Snape's attention. He had heard that sound before, too many times.

And as long as he was consigning things to hell, damn the balaclava-wearing child minder who, rather than setting the boy back on his feet, had laughed and stomped down upon the thin fingers that were momentarily unprotected. The metallic echo of the grate nearly drowned out the crunch; the choked, high-pitched scream came later, much later. Long after Snape's narrow palm met the sadist's forehead, having driven the nasal bones as far as they would go into soft brain tissue.

The alley was absolutely silent. The CCTV blinked down at the doorway from which the dead minder and the huddled child had emerged, blinked while Severus Snape tipped the body neatly into a tall bin, temporarily evicting a coterie of rats, continued to blink while Snape tucked away wet, black gloves and snapped a dark jacket sleeve down over his blood-soaked cuff. It was dark; it would do. As he was not yet in custody, the video feed was probably unattended; there was even a good chance the camera was one of those fakes of legend, an empty metal carcass designed to put the fear of Instant Response into the law-abiding people of Britain. A very good chance.

It was time to change residences. Cities, if possible. Less than four streets away was an entrance to a quick exit, the use of which offered an even greater chance at death by official fiat... had he been capable of using it. His flat, and the few coins he had hidden away, were more than twenty minutes walk, and there was every chance that the CCTV was *not* mounted over the doorway for mere show. This was where trusting to instinct had bloody led him -- dithering about red-handed at the scene of a murder, all but tap-dancing his way to the gallows. Lovely.

Perhaps he heard the child approach, and subconsciously discarded the movement as non-threatening and therefore meaningless to the situation. That didn't change the fact that when a soft touch brushed across his bare hand, Snape's heart literally stopped. Glacial hours, days and years went by as he turned; only the leaden pull of gravity enabled the man to look down and identify his nemesis. Snape crouched slowly, and looked into wide green eyes, nearly hidden under a hideous knit cap. They were glazed; the child was in shock. He was also a little girl.

Chivalry, had Severus Snape been asked to support it, would have found itself tossed down a staircase. The former wizard had never found any child endearing; certainly not by reason of an unfortunate choice of gender. Nevertheless, the brutal attack which had catapulted Snape from any possibility of his bed, and out of his weary way of life, was suddenly, inexplicably, far more acceptable. He patted the child roughly, hoping the violent death which had taken place in front of her had offered at least some measure of satisfaction.

Feeling the thin chest swell under his hand, Snape slid his fingers up, circling the slender throat and pressing gently. He shook his head, pursing his lips to hush any attempt at speech. The wisest choice would be to tighten his fingers, turn the little head sharply on its cold neck, and dispose of both a witness and a life destined to be spent in misery and degradation. More than likely she had already tasted the bitterness of a blighted future; children taken into care by the Crown were unlikely to keep their innocence for any length of time. The child stood quietly under his hand. They were both waiting for his decision. Fuck.

It wouldn't do to be filmed entering the alley alone, and departing hand-in-hand with a damaged waif. Snape held up one finger, looking the child firmly in the eye. Slowly, she nodded. Definitely shock... but intelligent enough. Hardly worth burdening himself with, of course, but as he was already slated for the quick drop, Snape was willing to add kidnapping and interference with a Ward of the Crown to the charges. Perhaps he should nick a mini and go drink driving, just to round things off nicely.

Shaking his head in sour amusement, the man quickly removed his coat, then the thick woolen sweater beneath. This he dropped over the girl's head, drawing her arms gently through the sleeves. The broken hand was already discolored and swelling, but a cursory examination revealed no obvious cuts or abrasions. Warning the child again with an uplifted finger, Snape stepped away to scoop up a double handful of snow. He was glad it was dark; if he could see the stuff clearly, he was certain he would not use it. Ignoring the sudden, harsh intake of breath, he pressed the snow around the girl's hand, then knotted the sleeve. It would have to do. At any rate, it was unlikely there would be time that night to waste on the minor worry of septicemia.

Both the girl and the gaunt, ugly man had begun to shiver violently. Snape caught the pointed chin, and redirected the girl's attention from the lump of her hidden, mutilated hand back to his face. She was pale and sweating, which did not bode well. It took several repetitions of the gestures Snape had been devising as he worked, but finally the girl nodded once again. When he presented a bent back, she stepped up on his thigh and wrapped her arms around his neck, her legs around his waist. Arms already in its sleeves, Snape lowered his jacket carefully over their heads, and buttoned it before he stood. With his hands buried deep in the pockets, he was able to offer the lightweight child a measure of support; after several moments, he felt her relax slightly.

Good enough. And odd as it might seem, he was still not in custody. Snape turned left at the end the alley, and followed his usual route towards home. 


End file.
